The Shadow at the Gate (59 page)

“Here we are,” said Cyrnel.

She twitched on the reins and the cart came to a halt. They were in a courtyard of sorts, bounded by the trees behind them and the cliff towering overhead. The three travelers tumbled out of the cart.

“Welcome to the Stone Tower,” said Severan.

Looking up, Jute could see that the cliff was a great deal larger and taller than it had appeared from across the valley. The waterfall of vegetation he had seen from afar, on closer inspection, was a gray-green lichen that grew on almost every rock surface in sight.

“It’s larger than I thought,” said Ronan. “Much larger. It’s a wonder the entire place doesn’t come crashing down.”

And then Jute saw it. The cliff itself was the building. The slabs of stone that made up its face, jutting out here and there in fantastic angles and slopes, were hewn into a semblance of walls. Windows looked out from behind the mantle of lichen. Chimneys teetered up to the sky in several spots, bent into grotesque lines like the trunks of trees twisted by the wind. Jute could smell woodsmoke in the air.

“There’s a ward spelled into the lichen,” said Severan. “It can rearrange itself to conceal the tower. Sometimes, if necessary, the ward conceals the entire valley. Fills it with forest, or even makes it seem as if the sea washes all the way in and there’s nothing here but water.”

“Magic plants,” said Jute. “I would’ve seen through it soon enough.”

“Hmmph,” said the hawk. “But do people ever come looking who mean the tower harm?”

“I don’t know. If they have, then they’ve never found it.”

A great double door at the foot of the cliff opened, and people streamed out. Soon, the courtyard was filled with people jostling and laughing and unloading Cyrnel’s cart. Jute stood to one side and watched, the hawk perched on his shoulder. Many of those he saw were his age or somewhat older. Boys vied to see who could carry the most bags and sacks from the back of the cart. A sack broke and yellow onions bounced and rolled everywhere. Several older men stood at the door.

“Severan,” said one of them, making his way across the courtyard. “We've been expecting you. And who are your companions?”

“Friends,” said Severan. “Just friends, passing through.”

The man smiled and nodded, but Jute noticed him later whispering with his fellows.

In no time at all, Cyrnel’s cart was empty and she clucked to the horse, gave them all a friendly nod, and was soon rolling off back down the lane of eucalyptus.

“Well, come in then,” said Severan, looking after Cyrnel’s departing cart wistfully. “It’ll soon be time for lunch.”

The entrance hall was spacious. Jute had been expecting a cramped sort of tunnel, but the ceiling inside soared up to ribbed vaults that faded into sunlight. At first, he had a sense of great quiet, but then he heard the whispering of many voices beneath the silence. The words were not intelligible, but they were distinct as words, rushing and falling and murmuring over each other.

The memory of voices
, said the hawk inside his mind.
Voices of all kinds. This place remembers those who have passed through this place and speaks of its memory.

Why does it do that?
asked Jute.

I’m not certain. It is the stone of this place that speaks. I think it has gathered in the spells of hundreds of years and so gradually has become more and more awake.

Awake? What do you mean by awake? How can stone be awake?

But the hawk did not answer him, for at that moment, a short fat man bustled up.

“Severan! How good to see you.”

“Ablendan!” said Severan.

“I apologize for not sending anyone to help. I was, ah, detained. But, you’re well? All in one piece? Come—the council is convening and they wish to speak with you.”

“What? Wait. What happened? You left Hearne days ago.”

“The truth is,” said Ablendan, looking embarrassed, “I only arrived here this morning.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain later. You’re just in time for the council. All of you, especially, er, this is—is this. . . ?” Ablendan’s eyes darted to Jute.

They climbed a wide staircase that passed by many rooms and hallways stretching away on either side. The place bustled with life. There were boys everywhere, reading books, huddled together talking, sweeping floors, hunched over manuscripts, running up and down the stairs, talking, yelling, laughing. And, invariably, they all stopped whatever they were doing to stare.

“Sir? Excuse me, sir.”

Jute turned to see a small boy. Behind him, several other boys stared avidly, waiting in attentive silence. The first boy glanced behind him at the group, as if to gain courage from them.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said again. “Sir, is it true that you’re the wind? Everyone is talking of it.”

“Um,” said Jute, turning red and wishing he were anywhere but where he was. Fury flooded his mind, but it was not his own—it was the hawk’s. The bird’s talons squeezed painfully into his shoulders. But then Ronan urged him forward up the stairs, brushing by the boy and the onlookers.

“Lunch,” he said. “Lunch is more important than questions right now.”

And lunch was what they eventually had, in a narrow hall that looked out through windows at the sea far below. A long oak table ran the length of the room. It was surrounded by tall-backed chairs made of woven cane. The room was full of men, mostly old and gray. They were arguing together, some almost shouting in order to be heard over the others, one pounding on the table, several gesticulating wildly with their hands as they spoke, as is the manner of those who come from Vomaro. The moment the door opened and Jute and his fellows stepped through, the room fell into dead silence. But only for a second. Then, it erupted into noise once again.

“Welcome to the—” said Ablendan.

“Severan!”

“Is this youngster the one we’ve heard of? Why haven’t you—”

“I still don’t believe it. Not a word of it. Test him. I want to see a test of his powers before we—”

“Food would be appreciated!” bellowed Ronan. “Some of your famed Thulish hospitality!”

There was a moment of startled silence and then a flurry of activity. Several of the younger men in the room hurried out. Chairs were offered. A jug of ale appeared. Bread, cheese, and sausage were whisked in on a platter. A small boy staggered through the door under the weight of a tureen of stew smelling splendidly of beef and spices. Ronan, Severan, and Jute dug into the food with appreciation. The hawk hopped up onto the back of Jute’s chair and refused a piece of sausage that Jute offered him. Someone swung open a window, and the sound of the surf could be heard from far below the cliff.

“Honored guests,” said an old bald man, inclining his head, “the council of the Stone Tower has been discussing your—this issue, ever since Ablendan arrived from Hearne. I must confess that some of us were dubious of his news, as such a thing has never been heard in Tormay. At least, not in recorded history. But there’re ways to determine whether a man is telling the truth, and Ablendan has spoken only the truth to us.”

“That’s your opinion,” said a voice from somewhere in the room. The bald man flushed angrily at this and turned around, but there were only blank faces to be seen.

“Now,” said the bald man, trying to smile but only managing to look as if he had stomachache. “Now, there are three questions that must be asked. Two questions aren’t enough, and we can’t presume on your patience with four. I’ve been allowed the first. Forgive me for its simplicity. How can the wind die, for it still has been blowing past our tower all these years with never a lull?”

Another stepped forward, a thin man tugging at his beard. “Hedred Hald’s book of Naming and Names states that the old languages were made of words that preexisted what they described, that this truth even applies to the four stillpoints of earth, water, wind, and fire, the anbeorun of old. If the name of the wind can be found, then is that word more powerful than the wind?”

A third man spoke, his eyes shut. “The second stricture of death is that it is final. Therefore, if the wind can die, how can it live again? And if it can live again, can it die again?” He opened his eyes and stared at Jute.

The old bald man bowed his head. “We await your answers.”

“You’ll get no answers from us, old man.”

It was the hawk. The bird’s voice vibrated with anger.

“My patience was gone before we finished climbing the stairs. Why does even the smallest boy here know who we are? The stones of this place whisper about what has gone on within these walls. And now, we are part of those memories as well. Stone whispers to stone, and beyond them, past them in the shadows, is the darkness. And in the darkness, the Dark listens.”

Outside, sunlight glittered on the wave tops and clouds scudded across the sky. Somewhere, outside the open window, a bird whistled. Jute mopped up the last of his stew and tried not to meet anyone’s eyes. He could feel stares on him, particularly of the man who had asked the last question. The question about death. Next to Jute, Ronan worked his way through his third bowl of stew, his face blank and uncaring of what was going on around them. The old man stammered an apology, but the hawk interrupted him.

“We’ll answer no questions for now,” said the hawk, “though we thank you for your hospitality. We’ve traveled far and would like to rest a while.”

The sound of the bird’s beak snapping shut on this last word was sharp and final. No one said a thing after that, other than asking if they wanted more stew (which Ronan did) or more ale (which he also did) and murmuring pleasantries about the weather and what a fine time of year it was to travel. After a while, all of the old men left the hall. When they had finished eating, the little fat man, Ablendan, showed them to some rooms. He lingered for a while, trying not to stare at Jute but making a bad job of it.

“Nice rooms, aren’t they?” said Ablendan. “They’re kept for dignitaries. You know, the duke of this or that, or someone’s rich aunt who’s considering donating to the school. Lovely view. Look. There’s a ship going by. Probably a trader from Lastane.”

“I’m not interested in the view,” said Severan. “What I’m interested in is how you managed to waste three days riding up from Hearne. Did you detour to go fishing? Stop to take a large number of long naps?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I came straight here. As, um, fast as I could.”

Ablendan’s voice trailed away and he eyed the door. No one said anything. Jute looked up from the book that he was trying to decipher. He knew his letters and could sound out short words, but anything more than that was a labor. Despite this, he found books to be fascinating things (how peculiar to think you held someone else’s thoughts in your hand).

“Well?” said Severan.

“All right,” said Ablendan, sighing. “I’ll tell you. I was only a day’s ride south of here—I came straight from Hearne on the boniest wretch of a nag in existence—when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“I was turned into a mouse.”

Everyone considered this for a moment in silence. The hawk eyed Ablendan with interest, as if trying to imagine what a meal of such a mouse would entail.

“You were turned into a mouse,” said Severan.

“Er, yes.”

The story came out quickly, now that the worst part was over. Or, rather, nearly the worst part.

“I stopped for the night. I made a fire and had a bite to eat. Then, in the darkness on the other side of the fire, I saw a pair of glaring eyes. I choked on my bread and cheese at the sight. It was a huge dog, like a mastiff but even bigger. There was something enchanted about the brute, for I could see right through portions of it. It faded in and out of sight. One second, I could see the trees behind the creature, the next moment it was the horror itself, stalking closer and closer. I didn’t know what to do. It was like being turned to stone, waiting for death with all of its glaring eyes and fangs. I tried to think of a spell, anything that would help. But the only thing that came to mind—er, well. . .”

“You turned yourself into a mouse?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” said Ablendan. “You should have seen the look of astonishment on the brute’s face. I hightailed it down a gopher hole before it could blink. The only problem was, next morning, I couldn’t remember how to turn myself back into a man. It was a long walk to the Stone Tower.”

“After all our years studying and teaching. The best you can do is turn yourself into a mouse.”

“I’m not at all surprised,” said the hawk. “All of you so-called wizards are more interested in words than in the actual living of life itself. It weakens the mind. If I had happened along several days ago, I would’ve eaten you for lunch and you’d have been all the better for it.”

This was, perhaps, one of the more tactless things that could have been said at that moment. Ablendan stomped out of the room.

“A mouse,” said the hawk. “Words and more words.”

“But I thought that words are important,” said Jute. “That they shape life.”

“They are important,” said the hawk. “But you must understand that the shaping of the world is over. The words that were to be spoken have been spoken. There’s only danger in them now. They’re secrets best left to be forgotten. They should not be sought out.”